wicked game
by LittlexMissxVicious
Summary: "knowing too much of your future is a dangerous thing. i have enough demons on my back, i don't need my future ones added to the pile." / the misadventures, mistakes and miracles of lyarra stark (oc/multiple characters) RE-UPLOADED
1. Chapter 1

**1**

* * *

 **CATELYN TULLY**

* * *

Eddard Stark was a man known for his honour. It was a trait that the Stark family had ancestrally favoured. His own upbringing by Lord Jon Arryn in the Eyrie, as well as his father's teaching and eventual demise, had only caused him to become more righteous. Ned was a devoted father, a loving husband, and a reliable Lord and Warden. This was probably the reason that Catelyn found her husband fathering a child while away fighting in the war so unforgivable. Or rather, she found the fact that he dared to bring the bastard back to Winterfell for her to love and raise as one of her own, even going as far as to treat little Jon as an equal to their trueborn children, so unforgivable. It didn't help matters that the child held more Stark in its features than any children of her own did.

 _Where did I go wrong?_ Catelyn wondered as she stood beside her husband, watching as their eldest son, Robb, and the bastard attempted to teach Brandon how to shoot an arrow. Brandon was nine summers old, her second youngest, and was epically failing at the sport. _I have given him six beautiful children_. She allowed her Tully blue eyes to wander to her eldest son as he laughed; then to Brandon's face; and, finally, to where her eldest daughter leaned against the wooden partition, her pale hand resting casually across Rickon's knee to save the young boy from falling off it, already aware of his tendency to rock back and forth when sat in one place for a long time. Lyarra's resemblance to her Aunt in everything from looks to personality was utterly devastating for her father, and, despite having not known her sister-in-law well at all, even Catelyn occasionally found Lyanna's name on her tongue while speaking to her. The likeness was so uncanny that often Ned found it hard to stare in her steely grey eyes without feeling a sense of crushing loss. She was a beautiful young woman, striking, and had grown to be everything that Catelyn could have wanted in a daughter – quiet but spirited, and holding a cold fire within her heart, often dubbed has having inherited the Stark wolf-blood. It was the similarity between the two that resulted in Ned having a startlingly protective standpoint in regards to her, hence why she was seventeen summers old and unmarried, despite having got her moons blood at ten. It was Lyarra's bright grin and tinkling giggle that had an unbidden smile creeping across her face as she shook away the thoughts, saving them to be pondered another time as her husband's voice cut across the laughing boys.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Ned called, but his voice held no malice, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he directed his next words to the downtrodden boy. "Keep practicing, Bran." He encouraged. "Go on."

"Don't think too much," Jon advised his half-brother.

Robb watched critically as Bran got into position, pulling the string taut. "Relax your bow arm."

An arrow whizzed by, landing in the centre of the sloppily drawn black circle in the middle of the target. A bullseye. But the arrow did not belong to Bran, it belonged to his sister, Arya – her cheeky face alight with mischief, a bow clasped in her hands as she stood at least fifteen feet behind her brothers. Her mocking curtsy prompting a loud laugh to escape Lyarra's lips, the laughter of her siblings soon joining her own as Bran dropped his bow, taking off after his elder sister. The Stark siblings watched them zip around the training area for a few moments, jeering at them and hollering.

Catelyn's mirth was dying down as Winterfell's Master-At-Arms appeared, face reddened. "Lord Stark!" He stood, inclining his head respectfully to Ned. "My lady," he did the same to her as Theon Greyjoy, Ned's Ward, came to stand beside him. "A guardsman just rode in from the hills, they've captured a deserter from the Night's Watch." Any remaining smiles disappeared, and Catelyn glanced at her husband as he sighed sombrely.

"Get the lads to saddle their horses," he instructed Theon gruffly.

"Do you have to?" Catelyn questioned sadly, but knew the answer.

"He swore an oath, Cat." Ned stated.

"Law is law, my Lady," Ser Rodrik added, and she looked away grimly.

Her head snapped back towards the men when Ned spoke once more, shock heavy on her face, "Tell Bran he's coming, too."

Catelyn waited for Ser Rodrik to leave before voicing her disapproval. "Ned," she snapped, gaining his attention. "Ten is too young to see such things," she shook her head, but he remained unwavering.

"He won't be a boy forever," Ned replied gravely, "And winter is coming."

Lyarra turned the corner as she opened her mouth to reply, Rickon balanced precariously on her hip as she pushed past Theon – she'd never liked the boy. Setting Rickon down beside her, Lyarra curtsied briefly, "Father," she muttered, rising to kiss his scratchy cheek.

"Lyarra," he smiled for a second, but it dropped as they locked eyes. Eddard loved his daughter dearly, and she adored him similarly, though he struggled occasionally to be around her – she was far too much like Lyanna. Looking away instantly, Lyarra deflated slightly as he ruffled Rickon's hair and walked away. Her eyes moved to Catelyn, and she opened her arms. Rushing forwards and embracing her mother fleetingly, Lyarra stepped backwards as Rickon flung himself at Catelyn's waist, burying his face in her stomach.

"You appear troubled, Mother," Lyarra noted as Rickon released his grip, busying himself by hiding in the skirts of Lyarra's dress.

"Yes," Catelyn spoke quietly. "Your father thinks it is time to bring Brandon along."

"Well, he is a boy, I'll give you that, Mother. But perhaps it is time that Brandon learns what it takes to be a Northern Lord. Also, Robb was his age when he first saw Father pass the sentence."

Catelyn sighed, knowing that Lyarra was right. Looking down at her youngest child, she raised an eyebrow at the mud streaked on his left cheek. _Where did that come from?_ She wondered, but knew better than to ask. "Take your brother for a bath, will you, Lyarra? It seems that whatever the two of you have been doing today has dirtied him."

"Of course, Mother." She kissed Catelyn's cheek and took Rickon by the hand once more, ignoring his complaints as she led him back to the Castle.

 **~8~**

Catelyn remembers the first time Lyarra had one of her dreams well – she had only been around five summers old, and Catelyn had been nursing Arya at the time in her chambers when shouts arose from the courtyard. Ned had gotten out of bed, and picked up his sword before rushing out of the room. Catelyn had wrapped herself in a thick fur cloak and placed Arya back into her cot, before following him, curious, as the noises increased.

"What do you mean you don't know where she is?" Ned had roared suddenly at his men as Catelyn reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Ned, what's going on?" She'd asked, coming to stand beside him.

He looked at her then, eyes filled with panic and fear. "Lyarra's gone missing."

Her heart had lurched with a feeling that she will never be able to accurately describe – cold terror would be the thing most akin. The thought that her little girl was out in the dark and the cold in nothing but her nightclothes, kidnapped or lost and most certainly afraid, had sent every fibre of her being into overdrive – even the thought of it now, all these years later, sends chills down Catelyn's spine.

Catelyn had wanted to fall to her knees, cry even, but something inside stopped her. She likes to think, now, that it had been the Mother's influence guiding her, but she knows it was probably just blind shock that had kept her standing. "You better find her, then." She'd replied.

Everything seemed to pass in a blur, her ears ringing so loudly that she could barely even hear Ned bark out instructions to search the entirety of Winterfell and Wintertown, and, if they didn't find her then, to alert the Northern Lords and search the rest of the North until she was found. The men, to their credit, set off and did as told, speeding off to do as their Lord had commanded.

"I'm going, too." Catelyn had said faintly, jaw set.

Ned had tried to stop her, but ultimately failed, sighing, "Check the Godswood. Jory, go with her."

"Yes, my Lord," The young man had nodded, and the two of them set off on the path to the Godswood, a path that usually took ten minutes to go down, but one they managed to run in only five.

They spotted her quickly in the icy water that surrounded the ancient weirwood tree, eyes shut as she sank underwater, almost angelic as she lay in rest with her white nightdress billowing out around her like a shroud. "Lyarra!" Catelyn cried out, running faster than her legs had ever taken her to the edge of the pond. Turning to the young man who was stood, shell-shocked, beside her, she snapped him back to the real world. "Jory, go and fetch Ned and Maester Luwin."

"My Lady-" Jory protested meekly as Catelyn took off the boots she'd hastily thrown on, keeping her dressing gown on as she lifted her skirts.

"Go, you fool!" Catelyn shrieked, and he did so, sprinting from the Godswood as she dipped her foot into the withdrew it with a scream. It was cold, so cold. But the thought of Lyarra being in it pushed her into forcing her shivering form into its depths.

The water was deep, deep enough that Catelyn had to wade after getting a few metres in. Her teeth were chattering viciously as she swam out to the girl, her body beginning to go into overdrive as she struggled to stay afloat. Never had Catelyn been so thankful for her father teaching her brother, sister and her to swim as children. Reaching her after what felt like an age, Catelyn gripped her by the arm and pulled her to the surface, tears turning to ice on her cheeks as she looked down at her tiny form – she was going blue, eyes shut and unmoving. She puffed, air coming out a cold cloud before her. _Come on, Catelyn_.

Catelyn finally reached the bank, hauling Lyarra's frozen body onto the side and then her own. Shivers wracked her body like sobs, and she coughed loudly, expelling water onto the dirt. She looked down at her eldest daughter, her little frame across her knees as she held her in her arms, shaking and weeping.

 _I ask the Mother, please- please let her live. I ask the Father, the Stranger, the Smith, the Crone, the Warrior, the Maiden – anyone who will listen. Please, please, please let her live._

A sharp gasp, followed by even sharper inhalations of breath made her sob as Lyarra sat up suddenly, eyes white and glassy as she did. "Jon," she'd breathed, before going limp in Catelyn's arms, sleep claiming her once more. The week afterwards, her half-brother had come down with a deadly pox and nearly died.

 _Coincidence? I think not_. And was proved right in her thoughts when, again and again, Lyarra was both blessed and cursed with prophetic dreams by the Crone.

That had been so long ago, and yet even now as she approached her seventeenth nameday, Lyarra's limp body was found in the pond near the Godswood. They knew better now than to jump in to get her out, all it did was cause a chill that had never quite been shaken in Catelyn's bones. So, instead, she perched herself on the bench and waited for her daughter to awake from the dream she was trapped in. Robb had joined her on this occasion, silently watching the water with a crease of worry on his brow. Fenrir, the large black direwolf pup that had been saved – along with its siblings – and brought back to Winterfell after they'd been discovered orphaned during a hunt, joined them, too, growling and howling at the sky as he waited for Lyarra.

They didn't have to wait long – she shot up, gasping and panting in the same way she had when she was but a child. Her eyes were a cloudy white, rolling and looking around the Godswood unseeingly. " _ **Three wolves venture southward, three more follow, to a death by stags shrouded in gold. One shall be lost, one shall be destroyed, another changed. Irreversibly.**_ "

Lyarra coughed brutally, the water she had inhaled shooting from her mouth and to her side as she crawled out from the pond. She looked to Catelyn, steely eyes shifting back into focus. "Mother," Lyarra whispers, before slumping down into the mud, unconscious.

Robb sprung up quickly, taking his twin into his arms and rushing her back into the Castle, where Maester Luwin was waiting in her chambers with blankets, hot water, and the fire roaring in its hearth. Lyarra was laid down on her bed, heavy furs placed over her thin frame. Fenrir barking all the while.

She slept restlessly, cold sweat on her brow as nightmares claimed her once more. Catelyn sat in the chair that had been placed beside her bed when her dreams had first started, slumped over and exhausted.

Her eyes fluttered shut of their own accord, cheek resting on her palm as she began to, at last, fall asleep. It felt as though she'd only slept for a second when a whisper sounded throughout the chambers, waking her.

"Mother?" Lyarra had muttered feebly, the direwolf that had grown to be so loyal in such short time sitting vigil beside her, warming her.

"I'm here," Catelyn replied, taking her by the hand and brushing away a curl from her forehead. "I always will be."

 **~8~**

"All these years, and I still feel like an outsider whenever I come here."

Catelyn's voice caused Eddard to lift his head, watching her as she came to stand before him beside the weirwood tree, looking out at the pond she had come to hate.

"You have five northern children, you're not an outsider."

"I wonder if the Old Gods agree," said Catelyn.

Ned looked up from where he was polishing Ice, his sword, a small smile on his face. "It's your Gods with all the rules."

The smile died as he looked to his wife's face, and she frowned. "I'm so sorry, my love."

His hand stilled. "Tell me."

"There was a raven from King's Landing." Catelyn paused. "Jon Arryn is dead. A fever took him. I know he was like a father to you."

"Your sister, the boy?" Ned masked his grief in the way all Northerners did, asking after Lysa and poor Robin, who were now alone in the Vale.

"They both have their health, Gods be good."

Catelyn sat down as he looked out to the water solemnly, "The raven brought more news," she said. "The King rides for Winterfell with the Queen and all the rest of them."

"If he's coming this far North, there's only one thing he's after." Ned spoke grimly.

"You must say no," she warned, the words spoken by Lyarra last night haunting her thoughts. "Lyarra dreamt of it last night, and dreamt only of death and sorrow. You can always say no, Ned."

"No, I can't." He replied gravely, standing, and leaving her alone in the Godswood.

 _Dark days were yet to come, and the cause of these darker days would soon be arriving in my home._

* * *

 **LYARRA STARK**

* * *

When Lyarra awoke it was early, the birds still chirping and only the sounds of the baker who woke at dawn to ready his bread were audible. She left the warmth of her bed, removed the nightdress she had been changed into. Standing before her mirror naked, she ignored the chill that caused goosepimples to appear across her body - she didn't feel it, anyway - and went through the chest that held all her dresses, having to get to the bottom of the pile to reach her best dress.

It was a pretty, dark blue-black colour and was fitted tightly, billowing out in the way that many of her dresses did. The sleeves were long and heavy, fur-lined. She didn't like the dress specifically, and she hated tying the laces of it, but knew better than to try and complain; there was too much stress, too much of many things. The only thing that separated this dress from her many others was the thin silver lines that Sansa had painstakingly embroidered onto its bodice for her sixteenth nameday. Today would be its public debut.

Lyarra would be lying if she said that the butterflies in her belly were from nerves about meeting the King – well, partly they were, but they were mainly for her father and sisters. She'd seen it in her dreams, she saw flickers of death in the flames. King's Landing was a snake pit, _the lion's den_ , and her father was far too honourable to survive there, Sansa too sweet and naïve. Only Arya had a chance, but she was too young, too impressionable. She feared for them.

A knock sounded at her door as she released her hair from its braid, allowing the black curls to fall to her waist. "Come in," she muttered as she pinned back two sections from her face.

"Sissy!" Rickon giggled, bumbling into her chambers with a shriek and Shaggydog in tow, Jon following with an uncomfortable smile.

"Sorry, Lyarra," He said as Rickon climbed into her lap. "He wouldn't come down for breakfast until he'd seen you."

"It's okay, Jon," Lyarra replied, running her fingers through Rickon's messy hair. "Oh, little pup, what am I going to do with you? You seem to find a way to get messy, no matter what anyone does." Rickon screeched as her poked his belly, springing up and running over to where Shaggydog had begun playing with Fenrir. She smiled softly at the boisterous child, glancing up to Jon. "Speaking of hair, yours looks ridiculous. You've been growing out that beard for moons."

Jon blushed slightly. "I know," he replied, laughing slightly. "The boys and I got it sheared this morning."

"At my mother's insistence, of course." Lyarra couldn't hold back her laugh at the mild distress on his handsome face. "Here, stay still," Jon looked at her with bemusement on his brow as she approached him, stilling as she lifted her hand to his greased hair and ran her fingers through it, restyling it into something distinctly more… _Jon_. Our eyes met, his a shade of grey far darker than her own icy tones, an almost black colour that matched his status as the black sheep. "There," she breathed, smiling in the slightest. Lyarra moved past him before he could form a reply, holding out a hand to her youngest brother, "Come on then, Rickon, let's go and get something to eat."

"Food!"

* * *

 **CATELYN TULLY**

* * *

"We'll need plenty of candles for Lord Tyrion's chamber, I'm told he reads all night." Catelyn said to Maester Luwin as they walked through the hall, where preparations for the King's imminent arrival were reaching their last moments.

"I'm told he drinks all night."

"How much could he possibly drink?" She wonders. "A man of his stature?"

"We've brought up eight barrels of ale from the cellar," The Maester informs, "Perhaps we'll find out."

"In any case, candles."

They continued walking, checking over any last minute things that haven't already been accounted for, and reached the courtyard, where she spotted one of the direwolf pups sat alone, staring upwards. "Gods, but they grow fast." Catelyn remarked, stopping as she waited for the appearance of the owner of said pup. She wasn't disappointed, and scowled as her eyes rested on the form of her second youngest. "Brandon!"

He was unmoved by her anger, continuing to climb down the side of the castle happily. "I saw the King," Bran beamed. "He's got hundreds of people."

Catelyn sighed in exasperation – The boy never listens. "How many times have I told you? No climbing."

"But he's coming right now, down our road!" Bran shook his head, laughing slightly in amazement and excitement. A feeling she couldn't share as her stomach felt heavy with dread.

As his feet landed on solid ground, Catelyn bent down before him. "I want you to promise me," she said seriously. "No more climbing."

Bran looked down at his feet sadly, looking back up with innocent eyes and a forlorn face. "I promise."

"Do you know what?" Catelyn asked as she leaned back to her full height.

"What?" He asked confusedly.

"You always look at your feet before you lie," she informed, a small smile forming on her face as he laughed. "Run and find your father, tell him the King is close."

 **~8~**

Catelyn smiled softly as she watched Lyarra usher Rickon into line beside her _. She'll be a great mother someday_ , she thought as Lyarra offered her mother a smile of her own, though hers seemed more sallow – she was nervous. What about, Catelyn couldn't be sure, but her thoughts turned as she looked down the line, doing a mental count to ensure everyone was in place – _Rickon, me, Ned, Robb, Lyarra, Sansa,_ Bran – her heart sinking as she noticed the gap where her youngest daughter should've been stood.

"Where's Arya?" She voiced her thoughts aloud, at the lack of response she asked again. "Sansa, where's your sister?" She shrugged uncaringly, looking the other way. "Lyarra?"

She shook her head, "I've been with Rickon all morning."

Catelyn's concern died as a little figure bumbled past in one of the soldiers metal helmets, panting as she went to her place in line. Ned stopped her, taking her by the arm. "Hey," He got her attention, looking at her confusedly as he removed the helmet. "What're you doing with that on?" Lyarra and Robb smirked, hiding their laughs as their father released his hold on her and let her go to her place in line. "Go on."

The Northern people watched as one by one the horses of the King's caravan rode into Winterfell, the Queen's carriage and finally the King reaching the square, the whole of the court falling to their knees in respect. Seeing Robert after all these years was a shock, Catelyn must admit – the stories were true, no longer was he the handsome warrior wielding a huge warhammer, but was instead the fat whoremonger that he had been reported to be. Good looks and muscles had ebbed into a red face and fat, his huge black beard streaked with grey. _Poor horse_ , she thought, but quickly reminded herself that that was the King.

They all watched in a deathly silence as one of Robert's squires brought over some steps so the King could climb down from his horse, which he did so after a moment of struggle. King Robert Baratheon stomped over, his great gut jiggling slightly as he did, and stopped before Ned. With a gloved hand, Robert gestured for them to stand, and at once everyone rose.

"Your Grace," Ned bowed.

Robert looked at him seriously, assessing him. It was tense for a moment as they waited with baited breath for him to reply, "You've got fat."

Catelyn's eyebrows wanted to shoot up, but she coached her face into a neutral expression. She looked to her Lord husband, waiting for his response. Ned pulled a face, raising his eyebrows, and gesturing to the King's gut with a look of 'you can't talk'.

Robert's face split into a laugh after another moment of tenseness, and the two boyhood friends embraced, laughing. As they pulled apart, Robert's attention turned to her, and he embraced her in a powerful hug. "Cat," he beamed.

"Your Grace," she bowed her head.

Robert's eyes flitted to Rickon, and he tousled his hair roughly before moving back down the line to Ned. "Nine years… Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?"

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace," He said as the Queen and the royal children departed from their huge carriage. "Winterfell is yours."

Robert looked to her eldest child, "Who have we here?" He wondered. "You must be Robb," he shook her son's hand. Robert's eyes then flitted to Lyarra, and he froze, looking at her with wonder and lust and sadness and many emotions that no mother would never want Robert Baratheon, of all men, looking at their daughter with _. He does not see my daughter, he sees a ghost._

"Lyarra, Your Grace," She informed, snapping him from his trance. The emerald eyes of Cersei Lannister were boring into her poor daughter's head, and the gaze of Robert was undoubtedly scalding, but Lyarra squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

Robert hurried down the line, looking away to Catelyn's relief. She looked to Ned, who's eyes shared the sparks of concern. "She cannot come to King's Landing with you," she whispered almost inaudibly as Robert spoke to Sansa, Arya, and Brandon.

"I know." Ned's reply was of the same volume, and she had no chance to reply as Queen Cersei Lannister, beautiful and blonde, approached, holding out her hand delicately with a false smile and eyes that spoke of her insincerity. "My Queen."

Catelyn curtsied. "My Queen."

"Take me to your crypt, I want to pay my respects." Robert interrupted, beady gaze having returned to Lyarra, who stared staunchly ahead, avoiding his gaze. Never has Catelyn seen her proud, wild daughter look so uncomfortable.

"We've been riding for a month, my love," Cersei spoke. "Surely the dead can wait."

Robert promptly ignored her. "Ned," he said, spinning on his heel and storming away. Ned had no choice but to follow.

 _It seems that my husband is often given no choice in matters regarding Robert Baratheon._

* * *

 **EDDARD STARK**

* * *

Robert and Ned walked through the crypts beneath the Castle, the way lit only by candles as they went.

"Tell me about Jon Arryn." He said.

Robert sighed, "One minute he was fine and then- burned right through him, whatever it was. I loved that man."

"We both did." Ned replied, thinking of the man who had raised the two of us in the Vale.

"He never had to teach you much, but me? You remember me at sixteen? All I wanted to do was crack skulls and fuck girls. He showed me what was what."

Ned gave him a sideways glance, "Aye."

"Don't look at me like that," Robert said indignantly. "It's not his fault I didn't listen." They shared a laugh, coming to a stop before the tombs of Ned's sister, brother, and father. "I need you, Ned, down at King's Landing, not up here where you're no damn use to anybody. Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King."

Ned dropped to one knee. He had not been surprised by the offer – what other reason would he ride this far North? The Hand of the King was the second most powerful man in Westeros. He spoke with the King's voice, commanded the King's armies, drafted the King's laws. At times, he even sat upon the Iron Throne to dispense the King's justice, when the King was absent, or sick, or otherwise indisposed. Robert was offering him a responsibility as large as the realm itself.

It was the last thing in the world Ned wanted.

"Your Grace," He said. "I'm not worthy of the honour."

"I'm not trying to honour you," Robert replied with good humour. "I'm trying to get you to run my kingdom while I eat, drink and whore myself to an early grave." He looked down to him, bumping his shoulder. "Damn it, Ned, stand up. You helped me win the Iron Throne, now help me keep the damn thing. We were meant to rule together. If your sister had lived, we'd have been bound by blood. Well, it's not too late. I have a son, you have a daughter."

"No, Robert," Ned objected. "Lya-"

"Not that one, I won't let her marry him." Robert interrupted, disgruntled at the thought in a similar way to Ned. "My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses." He said before storming away, the stone eyes of the dead seeming to watch his every move.

* * *

 **LYARRA STARK**

* * *

"Do you think Joffrey will like me?" Sansa asked as her mother ran her fingers through her soft auburn locks, plaiting them as Lyarra watched from beside the fireplace. "What if he thinks I'm ugly?"

"Then he is the stupidest Prince that ever lived," Catelyn replied to the love-struck girl.

 _I can think of a Prince who was significantly more stupid than Joffrey Baratheon, namely one that went by the name Targaryen_ , Lyarra thought, but stayed quiet, rolling her eyes discreetly at her sister. _One day she'll lose this innocence, and it'll be the same little lion that she's fawning over now to destroy it._

"He's so handsome," Sansa murmured dreamily, causing mother to sigh in exasperation. "When will we be married? Soon? Or do we have to wait?"

"Hush now, your father hasn't even said yes." Mother reminded her sister.

Sansa, as much as Lyarra loves her, reminded her of a bird – flighty, air-headed and naïve, and always desperate to change the topic of conversation to something of little importance. _A caged bird that sings._ "Why would he say no? He'd be the second most powerful man in the kingdom."

"Power isn't everything, San," Lyarra spoke as she put on her boots. "Father would have to leave home. He'd have to leave us, leave mother. And so would you, if you married the Prince."

"But, mother, you left your home to come here. And I'd be Queen someday." She turned to their mother suddenly, "Please make father say yes," she begged, "Please, please! It's the only thing I ever wanted."

Catelyn could do nothing but stare.

 **~8~**

Lyarra had always hated feasts. It seemed that they never quite went the way they should, always ending in some sort of situation that resulted in Jon Snow having to intervene. But, tonight, he wasn't here, _forced outside into the cold by my own mother_ , she thought bitterly, sipping from her goblet as she looked onto the festivities, only faintly hearing the laughter of her siblings as she sat at the high table, locked in a tense silence with her mother and Queen Cersei.

In some ways she felt for the Lannister Queen – she was a woman, after all, and no woman should have to watch her husband dishonour her. Whether there is love in the marriage or not, shame and embarrassment is not an emotion that a man should make his wife feel. But, as she looked at her, golden and regal and prideful and evil, Lyarra remembered what she'd seen, what she knew Cersei would do, and felt her heart turn cold to her. Lyarra looked to her face, harsh yet so beautiful, unloving and unyielding as she stared at her husband with the whore, so blatantly snubbing her. Robert Baratheon was a man who had given way to his sadness, and allowed it to drown him – Cersei, no matter how beautiful, could never fill the hole in his heart, and didn't have the patience or loving heart enough to chase away the demons that haunted his core. His sadness had festered into hatred for all things Targaryen and Lannister, his wife included.

Cersei was a stunningly beautiful woman – with her long blonde waves, emerald green eyes and perfect features, it would take a blind man to think her ugly. But, as Lyarra peered at her again from the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but notice how long her neck was. Perhaps it was the intricate hairstyle her hair had no doubt been painstakingly knotted into that had elongated it, or maybe it really was just an exceptionally long neck. _Either way, come this time next year, when many in this room are dead and Westeros is marred in chaos, there will be a large number of hands eager to wrap themselves around that pale, white throat. Mine included._

"Is this your first time in the North, Your Grace?" Catelyn asked the Queen, interrupting her thoughts.

"Yes, lovely country," Cersei lied through her teeth, not taking her eyes away from her cheating husband. Lyarra's eyes, however, watched as one of the Queen's maids went to the bench where Sansa was sitting, no doubt telling her sister that the Queen wished to speak to her, if her reaction and the fact that she started walking over was anything to go by.

"I'm sure it's very grim after King's Landing." Catelyn said, not seeming to notice the interaction. "I remember how scared I was when Ned brought me up here for the first time."

Sansa appeared before us, slightly bashful before the woman she idolised as she bowed her head, a small smile on her face.

"Hello, little dove," the Queen greeted her, insincerity leaking from her very pores, not that Sansa would realise that, not yet. "But you are a beauty. How old are you?"

"Thirteen, Your Grace." Sansa replied, the Queen's emerald eyes assessing her.

"You're tall," Cersei noted, "still growing?"

"I think so, Your Grace."

Cersei smiled pleasantly, "and have you bled yet?"

Sansa's smile dropped, her eyes turning wide in an instant as she looked to her mother and sister in shock and confusion. She hasn't, and it was for the best that she hadn't. Lyarra sipped from her goblet silently as Sansa shook her head, "No, Your Grace."

"Your dress, did you make it?" Cersei changed the topic quickly, the cogs in her mind no doubt turning. Sansa nodded happily, all uncomfortableness vanishing as the Queen smiled back falsely. "Such talent, you must make something for me."

It was a dismissal, and Sansa smiled, curtsied slightly, and flounced back to her seat, already giggling with her idiot friend Jeyne and making eyes at the Prince. Cersei spoke once more to Lady Stark, "I hear we might share a grandchild someday."

"I hear the same." Replied Catelyn.

Cersei turned her head, "your daughter will do well in the capital. Such beauty shouldn't stay hidden up here forever."

Lyarra bristled slightly at that – _No, my sister is a Northerner, a winter rose. The North is where she belongs_.

"Mother, I find that I suddenly feel rather lightheaded," Lyarra said, speaking for the first time that night as she stood from her chair. "I think I shall retire, if you permit it?"

"Of course, my sweet." Catelyn said, eyes worried as she looked upon her face, resting a warm hand on Lyarra's cheek, but they were quickly drawn away a commotion in the middle of the room, one probably caused by Arya.

"Your Grace," Lyarra curtsied, grey meeting green as they locked eyes. The eyes of a wolf meeting those of a snake in the clothing of the lion. Cersei nodded in return, and she left the hall, returning to the sanctum of her chambers, shutting the door with a sigh of relief.

Removing her dress and putting on her nightclothes was a routine action that passed in a blur, and Lyarra felt an unbidden relief as she climbed into bed, laying on jer back for a moment before turning to her side, eyes turning to the fire.

They glazed over quickly enough, and she knew now better than to fight it. Her body went limp as whispers filled her ears, vision turning white and cloudy as the abyss overtook her.

 _ **Bran looked in the window.**_

 _ **Inside the room, a man and a woman were wrestling. They were both naked. Bran could not tell who they were. The man's back was to him, and his body screened the woman from view as he pushed her up against a wall.**_

 _ **There were soft, wet sounds. Bran realised they were kissing. He watched, wide-eyed and frightened, his breath tight in his throat. The man had a hand down between her legs, and he must have been hurting her there, because the woman started to moan, low in her throat. "Stop it," she said, "stop it, stop it. Oh, please…" But her voice was low and weak, and she did not push him away. Her hands buried themselves in her hair, his tangled golden hair, and pulled his face down to her breast.**_

 _ **Bran saw her face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open, moaning. Her golden hair swung from side to side as her head moved back and forth, but he still recognised the Queen.**_

 _ **He must have made a noise. Suddenly her eyes opened and she was staring right at him. She screamed.**_

 _ **Everything happened at once then. The woman pushed the man away wildly, shouting and pointing. Bran tried to pull himself up, bending double as he reached for the gargoyle. He was in too much of a hurry. His hand scraped uselessly across smooth stone, and in his panic his legs slipped, and suddenly he was falling. There was an instant of vertigo, a sickening lurch as the window flashed past. He shot out a hand, grabbed for the ledge, lost it, caught it again with his other hand. He swung against the building, hard. The impact took the breath out of him. Bran dangled, one-handed, panting.**_

 _ **Faces appeared in the window above him.**_

 _ **The Queen. And now Bran recognised the man beside her. They looked as much alike as reflections in a mirror.**_

" _ **He saw us," the woman said shrilly.**_

" _ **So he did," the main said.**_

 _ **Bran's fingers started to slip. He grabbed the ledge with his other hand. Fingernails dug into unyielding stone. The man reached down. "Take my hand," he said. "Before you fall."**_

 _ **Bran seized his arm and held on tight with all his strength. The man yanked him up to the ledge. "What are you doing?" The woman demanded.**_

 _ **The man ignored her. He was very strong. He stood Bran up on the sill. "How old are you, boy?"**_

" _ **Ten," Bran said, shaking with relief. His fingers had dug deep gouges in the man's forearm. He let go sheepishly.**_

 _ **The man looked over at the woman. "The things I do for love," he said with loathing. He gave Bran a shove.**_

 _ **Screaming, Bran went backward out the window into empty air. There was nothing to grab on to. The courtyard rushed up to meet him.**_

 _ **Somewhere off in the distance, a wolf was howling. Crows circled the broken tower, waiting for corn.**_

Lyarra shot up from bed with a bloodcurdling scream, sweat dripping down her forehead as the fires in her chamber suddenly went out. "BRAN!"

* * *

 **A/N: Hey guys, hope you like my new Game of Thrones story. Let me know what you think! Follow, favourite and review, LittlexMissxVicious X**

 **Faceclaim for Lyarra - Katie McGrath (as Morgana Pendragon)**


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

* * *

 **CERSEI LANNISTER**

* * *

Cersei paced her chambers furiously, face creased in concern. Tyrion, her Dwarf brother, had told informed his family that the Stark boy was expected by the Maester to live that morning at breakfast, utterly horrifying her. Jaime pushed him from the tower and he did not die from the fall, _it clearly does take a lot to kill a Stark._

"You heard the Imp," she snapped. "They think the boy shall survive. What if he does, Jaime? What if he points the finger at us? What then?"

Cersei scowled as she looked at Jaime, who seemed utterly unconcerned. Her green eyes narrowed at his smirking face. If the Stark boy lives and most importantly remembers what he saw, she knew that she, Jaime, and her children would be executed by Robert himself, most likely. _He'd probably try and marry the Stark bitch afterwards._

If the Jon Arryn was able to find out about her and her brother, she wondered how many would follow after him, including the boy, and just how easy it would for be for them. It didn't take a fool to realise that none of Cersei's golden-haired children looked anything like Robert. Cersei remembered the look that Lyarra, the eldest of the Stark girls, had given her when she came to offer her condolences for the boy's fall. It was a knowing look, like she was silently telling her that she knew what her and Jaime had done.

"She knows _something_ about us. Lyarra knows something," Cersei insisted. "I do not know of what or how she knows, but she knows something. She is too dangerous, no good can come of her in the South. I know of the girl – of her supposed prophecies. The girl must be touched or something, nothing about her is – is good."

"I doubt she will come to King's Landing, Cersei. She cares for that younger Stark boy far too much. Look at them, he hasn't left her side since we arrived, and she clings to him just as much." Her twin brother said reassuringly, raising his eyebrows. "Or will you ask that I get him alone and push the other young Stark boy from the tower as well, to truly prevent her from coming? So long as you are calm and let nothing slip, we have nothing to worry about, Cersei. She is just a girl, she has no power. This is nothing but paranoia."

"I'll have her wed," Cersei informed her twin, cogs turning in her head already. "I will have her matched to someone as far from us as possible, where I can be sure that she can't open her fucking mouth. Dorne, perhaps, to a Martell. Or I will have her wed into a barbaric mountain tribe if that will keep her away, like the Targaryen bitch to the Dothraki."

She looked at him with a piercing gaze as his chortles and chuckles became loud laughter, causing her to scoff and turn away, stalking towards the window. Cersei looked out into the courtyard with disdain, she saw the Stark girl walk around the yard with the youngest of the wild, feral wolf children, who clutched to her skirts like a fly to shit. She did not like the fact that her dear Joffrey would marry the little dove, despite her being easy enough to manipulate, she did not want to be in relations with the likes of the Stark's. Starks and Lannisters _never_ got along; wolves and lions did not mix.

"Yes, Cersei. I am sure her mother and father will happily accept your proposal," Jaime leered sarcastically. "You've seen how Ned dotes on her, more so than her sisters. He's turned down proposals from every Northern Lord in the Kingdom, even a few from the Riverlands. What makes you think this would be any different?"

"They would not deny such an offer from the Queen of Westeros." She sneered, folding her arms. "I will have a word with them before we leave."

"And what will you tell the King?" Jaime questioned lesiurely. "Her likeness to the Lady Lyanna has not gone unnoticed. He, too, looks at her with desire. Robert wouldn't let any man other than him come within ten feet of her."

She closed her eyes when she heard him move towards her. He placed his hands firmly on her bare shoulders and began to kiss down her neck, she let out a small noise of disgust at the thought of the fat oaf and the wolf bitch, and reopened her eyes. Cersei saw the girl having words with her devil of a little sister, and plots began to form in her mind.

"What he doesn't know, can't hurt him," Cersei responded simply.

"You are a fool if you think that would work, Cersei." Jaime replied, pausing as he lay his chin on her shoulder, causing her brows to furrow. "Robert will not let some foreign Lord nor barbarian steal away his Lady Lyanna from him once again. Do you honestly believe this? Have you not seen the way he looks at her? Lady Lyarra Stark may be a wolf bitch but a fool, she is not. Perhaps she will overthrow you? Let her dig her teeth into that fat oaf. I can have you."

 _Queen you shall be…_ Maggy the Frog's voice taunted as she stared intently down at the mad girl dressed in the colours of her house, who was making her way back into the castle alone. Cersei tensed. _Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear._

Cersei let out a scoff of disbelief as she pushed Jaime away. She her way over to take a goblet of the horrible Northern wine and downed it quickly, before prowling out of her chambers and down to Lord Stark's study, ready to organise a marriage.

 _Lyarra Stark would not be doing any casting aside, not while I still have breath in my lungs. I'll choke before I let that bitch take my crown. Let the Dornish have her while I piss on that bitch's grave – her grave and her prophecies._

* * *

 **LYARRA STARK**

* * *

Mother had not left Bran's side since he was pushed from the tower by the Kingslayer. She looked dreadful as she sat vigil by the unconscious boy – her hair had long since began to hang limply around her face, the past days suddenly adding years to her pretty face. Lyarra didn't suppose she looked much better, though; with her mother lost to her own grief and father busy entertaining King Robert, the duty of looking after her younger siblings and many of her mother's normal responsibilities fell to her in Catelyn's self-induced absence.

At first she had understood, but now exhaustion and frustration as the weeks had gone by had prompted her patience to wear thin. Lyarra stared ahead at Robb, Theon and Jon blankly as they sparred in the training yard, Rickon in her arms. He buried his face in her neck and furs, tears streaming out of his eyes as he wept for their brother – Lyarra wanted nothing more than to cry, too. She had tried everything to soothe him, she sang and danced, and rocked him back-and-forth, but nothing worked, he simply tightened his grip around her neck and continued to sob. No one was thinking about how she felt, simply telling her that she was doing a good job briefly before leaving to offer condolences to her parents. The situation hurt her; it hurt that she could not tell them that he would wake, or what truly happened without being beheaded for treason or witchcraft. All Lyarra could do was repeat mantra _he will be fine_ to her brothers and sisters.

The whole castle was tense and even Arya was acting different, making more and more unconvincing excuses to remain at her side along with Rickon. Lyarra knew she missed mother, and it pained her to know that this was the beginning of the little light inside of Arya starting to dim. _Soon it will be nothing but a flicker, because she will be nothing, she will be no one._

"Arya, take Rickon and go to your brothers," Lyarra ordered as she set down the reluctant Rickon, who clutched to her leg when she did.

"He doesn't want to leave you. He'll cry," Arya replied immediately, and she raised an eyebrow slightly, knowing that her sister was using the hold Rickon had over her to her full advantage. She knew that Arya, in truth, did not want to leave her side either. "We have to stay with you."

"He's already crying," Lyarra spoke harshly, but regretted it upon seeing the look on Arya's face. Sighing softly, she reached out and touched her cheek softly. "I'll be in the hall for dinner," she offered, hoping that if she would stay in the hall to eat, which she rarely did, would make them leave but it didn't work. She sighed once more, bending down slightly and smoothing out Rickon's damp and unruly hair. "Now, off you go. Both of you. Please, Arya."

Arya hesitated. "Do you promise you'll be there for supper?"

She held out her pinkie finger to her youngest sister, who smiled for the first time since Bran fell. _He didn't fall,_ a voice in her head said, _he was pushed by the Kingslayer who had been fucking his sister, the Queen. Never forget that, Lyarra._ "I pinkie promise," Lyarra swore, and Arya wrapped her little finger around her own, nodding. _I had never broken a pinkie promise_.

Arya eyed her momentarily and huffed, seeming satisfied that she would hold up on her end of the bargain, before snatching Rickon by the hand and dragging her brother, who sniffed and pouted, towards Robb, Theon and Jon. Arya's lips were moving quickly but it seemed her message was being delivered, as Robb's blue eyes flickered to his twin and she nodded lightly to him, relieved. Robb bent down low and hoisted Rickon into the air as Jon took Arya by the hand, leading them into the castle with Theon trailing slightly behind them, no doubt annoyed that they couldn't spar anymore.

Cracking her back, she sighed quietly at the relief of not having to carry Rickon around everywhere. He has no longer a babe, and the weight of him on her hips left her muscles sore. However, Lyarra found herself missing the comfort his presence, along with Arya's, brought her – they made her feel stronger than she truly was with how they looked to her as if she just _knew_. Lyarra didn't know what they thought she knew, but pretending made it seem okay, even if it was only for a second.

Turning from the training yard with Fenrir following her dutifully, Lyarra entered the castle and navigated the corridors, arriving at Bran's room quickly. Knocking on the door of Bran's chambers, she waited for a response, but got none. Scowling at the door, imagining it was her mother's face, Lyarra turned to the huge black direwolf. "Stay here," she instructed, and Fenrir seemed to nod, his haunting eyes showing that he understood. Petting him briefly, she pushed open the door.

Her mother didn't spare her a glance, eyes focused on the prayer wheel that she was creating. "Mother?"

Catelyn hummed in response, only allowing her gaze to flicker to her daughter briefly as she sat down next to Brandon, taking his hand in her own.

"His fever's broken," she remarked. "That's good."

Once again, Catelyn didn't reply, simply looking at her.

"When was the last time you left this room?" Lyarra asked her.

"I have to take care of him," Catelyn finally spoke hoarsely.

"He's not going to die, mother, Maester Luwin says so, and I have seen it in my dreams, he will wake up. The most dangerous time has passed."

"What if he's wrong? What if you're wrong?" Catelyn burst out. "Bran _needs_ me."

"You have six children, not just Brandon." Lyarra snapped as she stood suddenly, eyes blazing with anger. "Six children who all need you, and yet you have done nothing but ignore five of us as you hole yourself up in here. No one has any idea what's going on. Robb is devastated. Sansa is spending all of her time with that – that _bastard_ Joffrey. Arya and Rickon cling to me like I am their mother and not you. And I have been left doing all the jobs that _you_ should be doing. We're absolutely lost without you, and you don't even have the decency to act as if you care. You are our mother, too. We need you, too."

Catelyn did nothing but stare, open-mouthed, at her. Her hands had stilled in the making of her prayer wheel, clutching it so tightly that her knuckles went white. Looking back at her mother searchingly, Lyarra found nothing in her gaze; _she was a shell of herself_.

"Say something," Lyarra begged her, anger ebbing into sadness and tiredness. "Please, mother, anything."

But she didn't. Of course she didn't. She probably wouldn't until Bran woke up.

Sighing quietly at her silence, Lyarra pressed a kiss to Bran's forehead, brushing his hair from his face. Without sparing her own mother a glance, she fled the stuffy room, managing to slam the door behind her before tears visibly streaked down her face.

Lyarra ran through the halls with Fenrir on her heels, a hand covering her mouth as she tried to make her way back to her own chambers. A dry sob left her lips and, truthfully, she was unsure as to the true cause of her tears. Perhaps it was stress, or worry for Bran, or even the knowledge that dark days would soon be upon us and she was powerless to stop it, but either way Lyarra found herself crying one second, and in pain a second later as she collided with what felt like a brick wall. Shutting her eyes as she ricocheted backwards, fully expecting the impact of the floor, she was shocked as hands closed around her arms and caught her before she could.

"Seven Hells! What's the matter with you, girl?" King Robert Baratheon thundered, his meaty fingers gripping Lyarra's upper arms tightly as he prevented her from flying to the stone floor. At her surprised silence, he huffed. "Well? Has someone hurt you?"

"N-No, Your Grace," Lyarra sniffed, trying desperately to compose herself. _How embarrassing._

Robert sighed, cursing under his breath. "Come in here," he said gruffly, leading her into his chambers, ordering out the guards. "Now, what's gotten you upset?" Robert questioned, clearly uncomfortable with her tears as they sat on the fur-lined chairs in the corner of the room.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," she mumbled as she calmed. Lyarra's fingers found Fenrir's inky fur, and she avoided the King's strong eyes. "I think with Bran being so – well, you know how it is… I think I'm just overwhelmed. We all are."

There was silence, and Robert let out a heavy sigh. "Boy, bring me and the Lady Lyarra some wine," Robert ordered the blond boy stood in the corner of his room, who went wide eyed and fumbled, clearly not expecting it. "Are you fucking dumb? Look at this fucking idiot – _another Lannister shit_ – he can't even pour a glass of fucking wine. Useless little cunt. Seven hells, boy, get on with it!"

Robert and Lyarra watched as the Lannister squire poured two goblets of wine, and handed it over to them. They sat quietly, and she inspected the King as he guzzled down the wine like it was water. Robert Baratheon possessed the typical Baratheon black hair and bright blue eyes, and stood at around six-and-a-half feet tall; once, she supposed, he would have been extremely handsome, but the years as King had prompted him to gain excessive amounts of weight, and given him a large gut. He red-faced from drink with dark circles underneath his haunted eyes, and was sweating through his silks. He spilt wine into his great beard, and simply wiped it off with the back of his sleeve – though he usurped the Targaryens, Robert did not look like much of a King as he sat before her.

Glancing back down to her own goblet, Lyarra took a sip. Feeling Robert's eyes resting on her heavily, she looked upwards, and her own grey eyes met his blue. It seemed as if, for a moment, Robert became the young man he had once been as he gazed at her, seeing Lyanna instead of Lyarra. But the visage was broken as she cleared her throat quietly – _he didn't see me, no one ever saw me, they saw her._

"It would've been you who married my Joff, it should be you. You're of age and seem like you'd fit in down at King's Landing far better than any of your family. But you stay up North with your mother – where I know the snakes and Lannister shits can't get to you." He said suddenly, his hand gripping her knee. "As long as I breathe, no man will lay a fucking hand on you unless you allow it. I swear it," The King spoke forcefully, all of his usual characteristic drunkenness gone as he stared deeply into her eyes. The intensity of his gaze and the hand he had on her knee made Lyarra feel an odd mix of discomfort, pity and safety. Discomfort at the fact that he clearly wasn't making this promise to her, but to her deceased Aunt who she looked so much like; pity because it was so clear that he carried the guilt of Lyanna's abduction and eventual death, and was haunted by it; and, for a strange reason that she was sure she will never be able to explain logically, safety in the presence of the man that she now knew would never hurt her, if only for her resemblance to Lyanna.

Robert Baratheon, she realised, didn't want to make the same mistakes with her that he had made with Lyanna, just like her father.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Lyarra replied, placing her pale hand over his own and squeezing it gently. She couldn't think of anything else to say, but luckily a guard approached the King informing him that he had visitors. Politely excusing herself, she ignored the two giggling serving girls stood outside his chambers, the reality of his whoremongering ways returning to the forefront of her mind.

 _I am a she-wolf of Winterfell, and the day that I rely on Robert Baratheon for protection will be my last._

* * *

 **EDDARD STARK**

* * *

"Father!"

Lyarra's voice, followed by footsteps, alerted Ned to his daughter's presence. Dismissing himself from his conversation with Ser Rodrik, he turned to Lyarra, greeting her with a smile as she kissed his cheek.

"Father, I need to speak to you," she muttered urgently. "It's important."

Ned frowned. "What's the matter, Lya?"

She shook her head, gesturing to the people around them, "Not here. Not where people can listen."

Ned offered her his arm and led her into the castle,

"Winter is coming, Lyarra –"

"Winter is already here, father." She replied, and her voice made him shiver. "You told me yourself; _when the cold wind blows the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._ You cannot leave Winterfell."

"I have to, sweet girl," said Ned.

"Then I'm not coming with you," she said determinedly. "King Robert would be happy to have me, I'm sure, but I won't leave my family, not like you."

"I don't have a choice, Lyarra." Ned tried to say, but she interrupted him.

"You have a choice. You always have a choice, and you've made yours. You're going to die in King's Landing," she spoke harshly, and Ned knew there was nothing but truth in her words. "We're all going to die. I saw it in the smoke. You're letting evil into our lives, father. The last time Starks left Winterfell it caused a war that killed thousands of innocent people, this will be no different. Worse even."

"Lyarra, what have you seen?" Ned asked her. He never asked what she saw in her dreams – he didn't like it, and wasn't as prone to believing in omens as his wife, but something about the haunted look in her eyes made him want to know. Gripping her upper arms, he forced her to look into his eyes.

"I-I can't tell you," she whispered. "If I tell you that makes it real. I can't do that. I do not see fate or changeable things, I see destiny, and I don't like it. I cannot condemn you to that. Please, father, don't go to King's Landing. Do not go where I cannot follow."

Although he wasn't an emotional man, Ned felt tears of bitter anger stinging his eyes. _Damn Robert, damn him to Hell for putting me in this position._ Standing, he left his daughter sat on her bed, cursing her likeness to his sister and cursing all things he could think of, including his honour.

Conflict was heavy on his mind as he stormed from the chambers, stoic and angry. _I did not make this bed, and yet I'm being forced to lie in it._

* * *

 **JON SNOW**

* * *

"You're leaving, aren't you. You've come to say goodbye." Lyarra murmured as Jon came to stand in the threshold of her room. It wasn't a question, and he did not reply, simply entering the room and closing the door behind him. She had been sat in the same spot for a while, that much was clear. "You're taking the Black. Why, Jon?" She span around, eyes filled with tears. "Why are you leaving me, leaving us? We _need_ you here – _I_ need you here."

Jon didn't have an answer that wouldn't upset her further. As a brother of the Night's Watch, Jon knew his bastard status would be put aside, and for the first time in his life, he would have the chance to make a name for himself, a name without the word 'bastard' attached to it.

"Don't even answer, I know why," she spat tearfully, a black fur wrapped around her shoulders. Though he had never actually discussed his reasoning with the eldest Stark girl, Jon knew that Lyarra, somehow, knew – she always did.

Jon bristled, raising his voice in frustration. "Of course you do, you know everything."

" _And you know nothing, Jon Snow_ ," Lyarra hissed, her voice as cold as the icy Northern winds.

He looked at her then, his gaze intense. Lyarra's face was stormy, though her eyes showed that she was simply upset and confused, and expressing it in the only way she knew how to. He felt his own anger dissipate in the way it always did whenever he and Lyarra argued, and saw her own face crack as silvery tears streaked down her cheeks. Lyarra's arms flung around Jon's neck suddenly, and she pulled him to her tightly.

"Lya," was all Jon said as he wrapped his own arms around her, holding her like it was the last time he ever would. He didn't know what else to say.

Lyarra pulled away and looked at him, seeming to consider what to do or say. He felt the same conflict – though Lyarra was accepted by her family and loved them dearly, she had often felt distanced from them due to her visions, and spurned when she was scolded for frightening her siblings with them. Jon was sure he would never forget the time that he had stumbled into her chambers after she had been shouted at by her parents.

 _Jon knocked on the door to Lyarra's chambers, hearing her sobbing faintly._

" _Go away!" He heard her yell between her wails, and promptly ignored her, opening the door. The sight that greeted him was his sister laid on her bed, weeping into the furs._

 _She had been shouted at by her mother and father for telling Robb what she had seen in her dreams. He understood why, he had been there when she told him._

" _It was you, this time, Robb. You were older and you had the head of a wolf sewed onto your own head. You were snarling and growling –"_

" _You horrid, horrid girl!" Lady Stark had screamed at her when Robb ran over in tears, telling his parents of what Lyarra had said. It had all happened so quickly._

" _I haven't done anything wrong! It's the truth!" Lyarra protested fiercely. "I saw it in my dreams, my dreams are never wrong, mother. Father," she looked to Ned, who had stayed quiet. "Tell her, father. Please, father, I didn't mean to upset him, I was just saying what I saw."_

" _Go to your room." Eddard ordered coldly._

" _What?" She cried. "Father –"_

" _Go to your room, Lyarra," he bellowed._

 _Everyone looked on in shock – Ned doted on Lyarra more than any of his other children, always bending to her will and giving in to her every whim, he'd never raised his voice at any of his children before, let alone Lyarra._

 _The girl, who was only ten namesdays old, let out a sob and shot her father a look of utter betrayal. Covering her mouth with her hand, she picked up her dark blue skirts, turned, and ran from the hall._

 _That had been hours ago, and her cries still echoed throughout the castle. Jon hated the sound of her tears, and decided to check on her._

" _Are you okay?" He asked as he came to sit down on the bed next to her. It was a stupid question._

" _What do you think?" Lyarra snapped, staring down at her hands sadly. "My own family doesn't believe me."_

" _I believe you," Jon told her, and her head snapped up. Her eyes were bloodshot and wide._

" _Really?" She sniffled._

 _Jon nodded simply, "Yes."_

 _She lunged at him then in a way similar to how she had now, flinging her arms around him. They fell asleep that night cuddled together on top of the furs of her bed._

"Don't think, just _feel_." Lyarra muttered suddenly, shaking him from the memory, before pressing her lips to his.

* * *

 **LYARRA STARK**

* * *

Lyarra watched from the window as Robb and Jon embraced in the courtyard, her lips swollen with the ghosts of their exchange. It had been wrong. They both knew it. But it had felt right, and she wasn't one to have regrets. She was dressed simply a midnight blue dress, a wolf pelt wrapped around her to keep the chill out, with her obsidian hair hanging to her waist in curls. Her eyes were haunted and sad as they looked out to Winterfell.

Jon looked up suddenly from where he was saddling his horse, seeming to sense that he had eyes on him. His eyes soon found Lyarra, and she stared out at him stoically, unspoken words hanging in the air, words that would probably never be spoken.

"Sissy?" Rickon bumbled into the room, dashing over to her and coming to join her in staring from the window, wrapping his arms around her leg as her buried his face in her blue skirts.

"Rickon," Lyarra gasped, breaking their eye contact as she gripped her youngest brother's shoulders, _where had he come from?_ "Where's Old Nan? I told you to stay with her today."

Rickon shook his head, pouting. "I missed you, I want to stay with you, you're my favourite."

"And you're mine, sweet pup," she replied, lifting him up and returning to her place as the window.

"I don't want Jon to leave." Rickon mumbled into her neck as they watched their brother do just that. "I don't want anyone to leave."

"Neither do I," answered Lyarra in a tone similar to the one her brother was using, holding him tighter to her.

"Are you going to leave me, too?" He sniffled, eyes so unguarded and wet with tears that she nearly cried. "Please, don't leave, Lya. I don't want you to go."

"No, Rickon, never," she swore. "I'll _never_ leave you."

 **~8~**

The walls of Winterfell were filled with the goodbyes of the Stark family as it split in half. Ned, Sansa and Arya were to travel South to King's Landing; Jon was taking the black; and Robb, Bran, Catelyn, Rickon and Lyarra were staying in Winterfell.

Arya's arms had been locked around Lyarra's neck since she had finished saying goodbye to her mother, the girl was refusing to release her eldest sister. "Come with us, Lya," she begged. "Don't leave me alone with Sansa."

Lyarra let out a laugh as she set down her sister, kneeling before her. They looked alike in a strange way – they shared the Stark long faces, grey eyes and dark hair – but it was their personalities that matched the most. She had been just like Arya as a child, unruly and wilful, needing two septas instead of one, but had learnt to curb her tongue and temper, something her sister had yet to do. Lyarra prayed at night that Arya never lost the wolf-blood that had been the undoing of their Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Brandon.

"I have to stay here, Arya. They need me more than you do, especially now that you have a needle of your own, you won't be needing me anymore," she replied with a wink.

Both she and Arya despised doing needlework, but Lyarra could at least do it well enough; oftentimes, she would make quick work of her own stitching, and then finish off Arya's for her, or would cover for her young sister to allow her to escape the clutches of Septa Mordane. That was years ago, though, Lyarra didn't do needlework with her sisters anymore, instead opting to look after Rickon once she turned ten-and-four.

"You're going to have to learn how to use it properly," Lyarra told her seriously, cupping her face in her hands. "the next time I see you, I want you to be able to show me how good you've gotten at needlework, alright?"

Arya nodded eagerly, and flung her skinny arms around her sister once more. "I'll write every day," she promised.

"You and I both know you won't, monthly or weekly shall suffice," Lyarra laughed as they pulled apart. "Stay safe, little sister. Try to stay out of trouble."

Arya sent her a mischievous grin, before bouncing off to Robb and saying her goodbyes to him. Lyarra turned to her auburn-haired sister, who was tearful as they embraced. They had never been exceedingly close – they were far too different for that – but they had never argued like Sansa did with Arya. Lyarra and Sansa were both beautiful, but polar opposites in it. Sansa was light where Lyarra was dark; all of her auburn-haired siblings were like that, though. They possessed a softness that Jon, Arya and Lyarra did not have. _A softness they will all soon lose._

Sighing softly as they released each other, Lyarra felt her heart break for her younger sister. How she wished she would help her, prevent her from slipping into Joffrey's clutches, but she could not – Sansa's destiny was fixed, just like everyone's was. Their lives were a wicked game that, no matter what they did, would end up with them dead; _the game of thrones took no prisoners_.

"Be careful, Sansa," Lyarra whispered to her younger sister, who seemed confused. "Remember who you are in here –" she pointed to her sister's chest, where her heart was. "You are Sansa Stark of Winterfell. You are a caged bird that sings. Don't _ever_ let _anyone_ take that away from you."

Sansa stared at her sister as if she had grown a second head, opening her mouth to ask what she was talking about, but Lyarra spoke first. "I'll see you again, one day. We'll both be very different then. Everything will be different then."

Lyarra hugged her sister once more, who numbly returned it. Sansa wanted to ask more questions, Lyarra could tell – _probably wanting to ask if I've been touched_ , she thought darkly. She left before Sansa could, tapping her father on the shoulder.

Ned had barely had the chance to turn before she was on him, hugging him fiercely. Her arms wrapped around his neck tightly, and she buried her face in his furs. It would be the last time she ever saw him, she knew it, and that was what made her weep. Lyarra looked at her father's face, trying desperately to engrain his face into her mind. Trying desperately to ensure that she wouldn't forget.

"I love you," she muttered into his neck, which she had wet with her tears.

"I love you, too," he gruffly mumbled in return.

"Please be careful, father," she begged. "Don't trust anyone down there, don't go digging where you shouldn't. Promise me you won't, father. Promise me, father. Promise me."

Ned's eyes seemed to glaze over with memories, and he stiffened. "I promise."

 _But they both knew it was a promise that he could not keep._

 **~8~**

"Lya! Lya! Tell me a story!" Rickon begged, gripping the sleeve of her night gown, refusing to allow her to leave his bedchambers. "Please, Lya, a story!"

Lyarra sighed. "I've told you three already, I'm going to run out of stories soon enough."

"Please, Lya, one more," he pouted, clutching at her hands. "Please, I promise I'll go to sleep after this one."

Looking at her youngest brother, she smiled softly, feeling her resolve crack. "Fine," Lyarra had never been able to say no to him when he gave her that look. "Which one do you want to hear?"

Rickon's brow creased in thought for a moment as he settled into the furs of his bed, before his eyes lit up. "Little Red," he said, seeming satisfied with his choice.

"Little Red Riding-Hood?"

"Yeah, that one!" He nodded, eyes doe-like and impatient as he waited for his sister to begin telling him one of his favourite tales.

"Okay," Lyarra laughed quietly, reaching over to tuck him in better as Shaggydog and Fenrir came to lay in the bed next to them, warming them instantly. "Once upon a time there lived on the borders of a great forest a woodman and his wife, who had one little daughter; a sweet, kind child, whom everyone loved. She was the joy of her mother's heart, and to please her, the good woman made her a little scarlet cloak and hood, and the child looked so pretty in it that everybody called her Little Red Riding-Hood.

"One day her mother told her she meant to send her to her grandmother—a very old woman who lived in the heart of the wood—to take her some fresh butter and new-laid eggs and a nice cake. Little Red Riding-Hood was very pleased to be sent on this errand, for she liked to do kind things, and it was so very long since she had seen her grandmother that she had almost forgotten what she had looked like.

"The sun was shining brightly, but it was not too warm under the shade of the old trees, and Red Riding-Hood sang with glee as she gathered a great bunch of wild flowers to give to her grandmother. She sang so sweetly that a dove flew down from a tree and followed her.

"Now, it happened that a lion, a very cruel, greedy creature, heard her song also, and longed to eat her for his breakfast, but he knew Hugh, the woodman, was at work very near, with his great direwolf, and he feared they might hear Red Riding-Hood cry out if he frightened her, and then they would kill him. So, he came up to her very gently and said: ' _Good day, Little Red Riding-Hood; where are you going?_ '"

"' _To see my grandmother_ ,' said the child, ' _and take her a present from mother of eggs and butter and cake'._

"' _Where does your grandmamma live?'_ asked the lion.

"' _Quite in the middle of the wood,_ ' she replied.

"' _Oh! I think I know the house. Good day, Red Riding-Hood_.' And the lion ran off as fast as he could.

Lyarra continued, "Little Red Riding-Hood was not in a hurry, and there were many things to amuse her in the wood. She ran after the white and yellow butterflies that danced before her, and sometimes she caught one, but she always let it go again, for she never liked to hurt any creature. And then there were the merry, cunning little squirrels to watch, cracking nuts on the branches of the old trees, and every now and then a rabbit would hurry away through the tall ferns, or a great bee come buzzing near her, and she would stop to watch it gathering honey from the flowers, and wild thyme. So she went on very slowly.

"By-and-by she saw Hugh, the woodman. ' _Where are you going, Little Red Riding-Hood_ ,' said he, ' _all alone_?'

"' _I am going to my grandmamma's_ ,' said the child. ' _Good day; I must make haste now, for it grows late_.'

"While Little Red Riding-Hood was at play in the wood, the great lion galloped on as fast as he could to the old woman's house. Grandmother lived all by herself, but once or twice a-day a neighbour's child came to tidy her house and get her food. Now, grandmother was very feeble, and often kept her bed; and it happened that she was in bed the day Little Red Riding-Hood went to see her. When the lion reached the cottage door he tapped.

"' _Who is there?_ ' asked the old woman.

"' _Little Red Riding-Hood, granny_ ,' said the lion, trying to speak like the child.

"' _Come in, my dear_ ,' said the old lady, who was a little deaf. "' _Pull the string and the latch will come up.'_ "

"The lion did as she told him, went in, and you may think how frightened poor grandmother was when she saw him standing by her bed instead of Little Red Riding-Hood. Very soon the lion, who was quite hungry after his run, ate up poor grandmother. Indeed, she was not enough for his breakfast, and so he thought he would like to eat sweet Red Riding-Hood also. Therefore, he dressed himself in granny's nightcap and got into bed, and waited for the child to knock at the door. But he waited a long time. By and by Little Red Riding-Hood reached her grandmother's house, and tapped at the door.

"' _Come in_ ,' said the lion, in a squeaking voice. ' _Pull the string, and the latch will come up_.'

"Red Riding-Hood thought grandmother must have a cold, she spoke so hoarsely; but she went in at once, and there lay her granny, as she thought, in bed.

"' _If you please, grandmamma, mother sends you some butter and eggs,_ ' she said.

"' _Come here, dear_ ,' said the wicked wolf, ' _and let me kiss you_ ,' and Red Riding-Hood obeyed.

"But when Red Riding-Hood saw the wolf she felt frightened. She had nearly forgotten grandmother, but she did not think she had been so ugly. ' _Grandmamma_ ,' she said, ' _what a great nose you have_.'" Lyarra bopped Rickon on the nose.

"' _All the better to smell you with, my dear,_ ' said the wolf.

"' _And, grandmamma, what large ears you have_.'" She tugged his ear gently, causing him to giggle.

"' _All the better to hear you with, my dear_.'

"' _Ah! grandmamma, and what large eyes you have!_ '" Lyarra looked directly into Rickon's bright eyes.

"' _All the better to see you with, my dear_ ,' said the lion, showing his teeth, for he longed to eat the child up.

"' _Oh, grandmamma, and what great teeth you have!_ ' said Red Riding-Hood.

"' _All the better to gobble you up with!_ '" Lyarra tickled Rickon's stomach and he howled with laughter. "Jumping out of bed, he rushed at Red Riding-Hood and would have eaten her up, but just at that minute the door flew open and a great direwolf tore him down. The lion and the wolf were still fighting when Hugh, the woodman, came in and killed the wicked lion with his axe. Little Red Riding-Hood threw her arms round the woodman Hugh's neck and kissed him, and thanked him again and again.

"' _Oh, you good, kind Hugh_ ,' she said, ' _how did you know the lion was here, in time to save me_?'

"' _Well,'_ said Hugh, ' _when you were gone by, I remembered that a lion had been seen about the wood lately, and I thought I would just come after you and see if you were safe. When we came near grandmother's house my wolf Shaggydog sniffed and ran to the door and whined, and then he pushed it open — you had not shut it closed — and rushed in, and I followed him, and between us we have killed the lion_.'

"Then Hugh took the child home, and her mother and father could not thank him enough for saving Little Red Riding-Hood –"

"Fire!" Robb rushed into the room as she finished the story, eyes wide.

"What?" Lyarra was on her feet in an instant. "A fire, in Winterfell?"

"Yes!" Her brother replied, turning to go. "You stay here with Rickon, barricade the door."

Lyarra's jaw dropped in shock. "What about Bran? Mother? Are they safe?"

"They're in his chambers. Stay here. I'll come and get you when it's been sorted."

He kissed her forehead briefly, and ran from the room.

"Lyarra, what's happening?" Rickon asked as she went to the window, seeing her home up in flames.

"I don't know, little pup," she muttered, pushing him back into bed when he tried to join her. "Stay in your bed, you'll get cold otherwise."

"Sissy –"

Rickon's words were drowned out as screams sounded through the halls, tearing through her body and going straight to Lyarra's gut. The only other woman in this end of the castle was –

"Mother," Lyarra gasped. Turning and looking to her little brother, who seemed terrified, she pressed a flurry of kisses to his face as she led him back to his bed and buried him to his neck beneath the furs. "Stay here, Rickon. Do not move. Shaggy, stay with him. Fenrir, come," The direwolves seemed to understand, and Shaggy came to stand protectively before the boy, who started to weep as Lyarra left him in the room. "I love you," she called as she shut the door behind her, locking it, feeling her heart break as she heard him crying, begging her not to leave. "I'll be back in a minute."

Running through the halls with Fenrir for what felt like the millionth time that day

She gasped at the sight before her. There was a man on the floor, his throat torn out with blood gushing from the wound, _dead_. Bran's direwolf was sat next to Bran, blood on his fur around his mouth. A groan of pain and a muttering of her name had her eyes darting to her mother, who was kneeling next to Bran's bed with blood all over her. Looking at the knife on the floor, it didn't take her long to figure out what happened. _We've been attacked._

"It was the Lannisters, mother," Lyarra hissed as she looked down at Catelyn's hands. They were drenched in blood, and her palms were cut to the bone. Ripping off the bottom of her dress, she attempted to tie it around her mother's hands as she makeshift bandage. She felt tears of bitter rage and shock slipping down her cheeks, and raised a hand to wipe them away, leaving a streak of Catelyn's blood in its place. "They did this. I saw them. They pushed Bran. They –"

Lyarra broke into messy sobs, and Catelyn wrapped her arms around her daughter, her own cries joining the mournful sounds that slipped from Lyarra's mouth. _How could something like this have happened?_

* * *

 **CATELYN TULLY**

* * *

Catelyn walked through Wintertown with her face set determinedly. She ignored everyone she stormed past as she approached the abandoned watch tower where Bran had fallen. It pained her to stand there, to stand where her poor son had had his legs along with his dreams shattered. _He would never use them again_ , Maester Luwin had said. Bran had wanted to be a knight, he wanted to be able to ride his horse into battle. He never would now. Catelyn wondered briefly how he would feel about never being able to ride a horse – like Lyarra, and their Aunt Lyanna before them, Bran was a talented rider, he and Lyarra rode more like centuars than people – but she pushed the thought away, it hurt too much to think about.

Climbing the stairs and entering the main room of the derelict tower, Catelyn's Tully blue eyes traced the room carefully. It was overgrown with ivy. The wind blew strongly from the large window, mussing her hair slightly as she turned and went to the middle of the room.

Her eyes caught something golden suddenly, reflecting from the sunlight. Dropping to her knees, she trailed her bruised fingers over the stone floor, looking for what she had just seen. Catelyn soon found it, and lifted it before her face to allow her to get a better look. It was a long strand of blonde hair.

There was only one woman that Catelyn could think of who had long, golden hair. _The Queen._

Lyarra was right, this had Lannister written all over it

 **~8~**

"What I am about to tell you must remain between us," Catelyn said. She had called for the five people she trusted most in all of Winterfell to meet her in the Godswood, where she could be sure that there were no prying ears. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik Cassel, Lyarra, Theon Greyjoy and Robb all listened intently to the Lady of Winterfell, who spoke gravely. "I don't think Bran fell from that tower, I think he was thrown."

The men's eyes seemed to go wide in consideration, and Lyarra stayed silent. She stayed silent because she _knew_ that Bran had been thrown, and she knew who by, and now so did Catelyn.

"The boy had always been sure-footed before," Maester Luwin said, mainly to Ser Rodrik.

"Someone tried to kill him twice," Catelyn interrupted. "Why?" she asked imploringly. "Why murder an innocent child? Unless, he saw something he wasn't meant to see. Lyarra saw something, too, in her dreams."

It was Theon who piped up this time, "Saw what, My Lady?"

"I don't know," Catelyn trailed her eyes to Lyarra, who shook her head secretively. It was better that she kept it to herself for now, lest they start a war with treasonous words. "But I would stake my life the Lannisters are involved. We already have reasons to suspect their loyalty to the crown."

"Did you notice the dagger the killer used?" Ser Rodrik questioned, said weapon in his gloved hands. "It's too fine a weapon for such a man. The blade-" he unsheathed it, "-is Valyrian steel, the handle dragonbone. Someone gave it to him," Winterfell's Master-At-Arms concluded.

"They come into our home and try to murder my brother?" Robb simmered with rage. "If it's war they want –"

"If it comes to that, you know I'll stand behind you." Theon said to Robb, and Lyarra snapped at him suddenly.

"What, is there going to be a battle in the Godswood? Huh? Are you both touched? I pegged you as a fool, Theon Greyjoy, but I didn't think you could be so stupid, Robb."

Both boys looked offended, but Maester Luwin spoke before they could, his voice mild but stern. "Too easily words of war become acts of war," said the wise old man. "We don't know the truth yet, and we cannot rely on what Lyarra has seen. This is much too serious. Lord Stark must be told of this."

Catelyn shook her head, "I don't trust a raven to carry these words."

"I'll ride to King's Landing," her son suggested.

"No," Catelyn shot him down quickly. "There must always be a Lord and Lady Stark in Winterfell, I will go myself."

"Mother, you can't," Lyarra said quickly, Robb nodding in agreement. "We need you here –"

"I must," replied Catelyn forcefully, and Lyarra bowed her head in submission.

"I'll send Hal with a squad of guardsmen to escort you," Ser Rodrik told her.

"Too large a party attracts unwanted attention," Catelyn denied. "I don't want the Lannisters to know I'm coming."

"Let me accompany you, at least," Ser Rodrik urged. "The Kingsroad can be a dangerous place for a woman alone."

Catelyn looked at Maester Luwin, who nodded. It was decided, she and Ser Rodrik would ride for Kingslanding.

"Well, what about Bran?" Robb questioned. Lyarra came to stand beside him, resting a hand on his forearm. _My two eldest are against me on this_ , Catelyn realised.

"I have prayed to the Seven for more than a month," Catelyn informed him, voice cracking slightly. "Bran's life is in Their hands now."

* * *

 **ARYA STARK**

* * *

Arya hadn't meant for this to happen. She barely even knew herself how she'd gotten into this situation. It was all Joffrey's fault, she hated him. They'd barely been away from Winterfell a day, and already she wished she'd never left.

Her father stormed through the Lannister guards, all but shoving them from his path. Arya had been dragged before King Robert and Queen Cersei by Lannisters when she was found, hiding behind a tree in the high grass at the dead of night. She'd never been so scared in her life, and had never felt more relieved to see her father,

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Arya blubbered as Ned took her into his arms, cupping her grubby face as he ensured she was unharmed. There were clean streaks on her cheeks from her tears, eyes red as she cried.

"Are you hurt?" Her father asked.

"No," she sniffled.

"Oh, it's alright," Ned hugged her once more, and she buried her face into his chest. "What is the meaning of this?" He demanded furiously, releasing her as he looked to his boyhood friend. "Why was my daughter not brought to me at once?"

"How dare you speak to your King in that manner –" Queen Cersei asked coldly

"Quiet, woman," the King snapped at her, and Cersei, spurned, fell silent, glowering. Robert's attention turned to his new Hand, "Sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. But we need to get this business done quickly."

"Your girl and that butcher's boy attacked my son," Cersei spoke. "That animal of hers nearly tore his arm off."

"That's not true!" Arya burst out. "She just… bit him a little." King Robert tilted his head, and she held back her grimace, continuing. "He was hurting Mycah."

"Joff told us what happened," Cersei said. "You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him."

"That's not what happened!" Arya cried angrily.

"Yes, it is!" Joffrey lied, unable to even meet anyone's eyes. "They all attacked me and she threw my sword into a river."

"Liar!"

"Shut up!" Joffrey returned insolently.

"ENOUGH!" King Robert cut over their petty arguing. "He tells me one thing, she tells me another," he gestured to the two of them. " _Seven hells!_ What am I to make of this? Where's your other daughter, Ned?"

"In bed asleep," Ned answered.

Cersei smirked slightly. "She's not," she informed. "Sansa, come here, darling." Mutters broke out as Sansa entered the room, and her father's face displayed his shock.

"Now, child," Robert pointed to her sister. "Tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It's a great crime to lie to a King."

Sansa looked around to Ned, to the King, to Arya, then to the Queen and Joffrey. "I don't know," she said unsurely. "I don't remember. Everything happened so fast. I didn't see –"

"LIAR!" Arya shrieked, hitting her sister's back and pulling her hair. "Liar! Liar! Liar!"

"Hey, stop it! Stop it, that's enough of that!" Ned shouted, attempting to separate his daughters.

"Liar! Liar! Liar!" Arya repeated, refusing to release her grip on her squealing sister's hair.

"Stop! Arya!" Ned bellowed, prising away her grip and smacking her hands away, pushing the two girls apart.

"She's as wild as that animal of hers," Cersei scoffed, and Arya fought the urge to shrink back. "I want her punished."

"What would you have me do?" Robert asked gruffly, rhetorically. "Whip a highborn girl through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It's over."

"Joffrey will bear these scars for the rest of his life," Cersei spoke icily, but Robert was unmoved, seeming more unimpressed than anything.

"You let that little girl disarm you?" He mocked his son, looking ashamed to admit that Joffrey came from his seed. Arya hid her smirk at the look on Joffrey's face as mutters began once more. Robert looked at his friend, "Ned, see to it that your daughter is disciplined. I'll do the same with my son."

Her father nodded. "Gladly, Your Grace."

Robert stood, going to leave, when Cersei's voice stopped him. "And what of the direwolf? What of the beast that savaged your son?"

"I forgot the damned wolf," Robert sighed, turning back around.

"We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace." A Lannsiter guard informed.

"No? So be it." Robert looked ready to leave it at that, but Cersei was insistent.

"We have another wolf."

"As you will," King Robert said, walking past Ned.

"You can't mean it," Ned spoke quietly to his friend and King.

"A direwolfs no pet." Robert replied gruffly, beginning to leave. "Get her a dog. She'll be happier for it."

"He doesn't mean Lady, does he?" Sansa asked, but Arya knew he did. "No, no – not Lady! Lady didn't _bite_ anyone! She's good!"

"Lady wasn't there, you leave her alone!"

"Stop them. Don't let them do it. Please, please, it wasn't Lady!"

In that moment as they pleaded for Lady's life, all Arya Stark wanted was her big sister. Lyarra would have never let something like this happen. She would have stood up for her – she would have told the King the truth, and Robert would have listened to her over anyone in the world because she looks like her aunt Lyanna. She would've called Joffrey and Sansa mean names to cheer her up, and pulled faces at their backs, maybe even dump a goblet of wine over their heads like she did to Theon once. Sansa had her 'sweet prince' Joffrey, but Arya had Lyarra and needle, and that was all she'd ever wanted.

But Lyarra wasn't here, and, for the first time in her life, Arya felt truly alone. Wrapping her skinny arms around her knees, all she could hear were Sansa's wails and Jory's soothing words, along with her own tears.

Meanwhile, outside, her father brought the blade down onto poor Lady; and, as the direwolf's final yelp sounded, somewhere, in a castle hundreds of leagues away, Bran's eyes shot open once more.

* * *

 **A/N: Hey guys, hope you like this chapter. Let me know what you think! Follow, favourite and review, LittlexMissxVicious X**


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